The Murder of John Watson
by grannysknitting
Summary: Non slash, Innocent!Sherlock, strong friendship. What if John hadn't been talking about his time in the army during 'A Study in Pink? What if someone had tried to murder him before?
1. Chapter 1

**The Murder of John Watson (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)**

AN – set as a stand alone AU – not meant to match with either of my other AU's – this is getting complicated! Maybe I should stop writing…

I got the idea by reinterpreting the conversation that Sherlock and John had about the murder of the Woman In Pink. Sherlock asked what John would be thinking if someone was murdering him and we all assume that it's the Taliban that John was talking about… but what if it wasn't?

… And then it took off from there with a will of its own. Sorry about this! I give Sherlock a History which is not very nice (he was a victim) and try to kill John off as a child as well…

&%&%&

**Jogged Me**

It's a murder, of course, that jogs his memory. Sherlock is rather startled to discover that his memory needs jogging – this has never happened to him before and he's not entirely sure that he likes the feeling. After all, he's not supposed to forget things, he's Sherlock Holmes!

"Are you even paying attention, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks impatiently, "I know that you've got the attention span of a gnat on a good day, but try not to let your mind wander too far."

"Murder," Sherlock breathed, gripping his hair in both hands, "He's been murdered before."

"_He?_" Anderson broke in, his voice even more annoying and nasal than usual, "First of all the victim is a woman – how you missed that I'll never know, especially taking into account her… surgically enhanced attributes…"

"Yes, yes, Anderson, we've all noticed that she's a double F," Donovan interrupted tartly.

"… and secondly, how do you murder someone twice? Even for you that would be something of a feat," Anderson concluded, shooting a nasty look at Sergeant Sally.

'_Trouble in paradise_,' the remark that floated through Sherlock's mind did so in John's voice, something that was happening more and more often over the last few months.

"No you fool," Sherlock retorted, "You've entirely missed the point. Lestrade! I need you to look up a file for me."

"I'm not the A to Z, Sherlock. I've got a crime to deal with here…"

"Yes, yes, I already know who did it. I'll give you the full details at the Yard, but I need you to look something up at once! I'll even ride in your blasted police car."

Lestrade gave him a shocked look, but seemed to understand that whatever had caught Sherlock's attention was urgent, or at least important. He nodded, gave the orders necessary to get the crime scene finished up and under control. He followed Sherlock out to his car and watched as the thin genius climbed in, fidgeting impatiently.

Sherlock pulled his phone out as Lestrade pulled out, trying to decide if he should text John or not.

"Once you've told me what I want to know, Sherlock," Lestrade said in a warning tone, "I'll look up whatever this file you want seen to. Can you at least give me a hint of what this is about?"

"John," Sherlock replied tersely, "What else?"

"I should have known, nothing else gets you into a lather quicker these days than John Watson," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The tone was fond though, which was no great surprise. Lestrade and John had grown quite close over the last year – ever since the Detective Inspector had dived into that god-forsaken pool and pulled John out just as he was going under for the third time, struggling to support himself and Sherlock's dead weight, despite serious injuries. Sherlock had been unconscious for all this, but Mycroft had film of the event and he'd shown it to his younger brother, at said brother's insistence.

Lestrade had even visited them at the hospital – though he'd been more interested in seeing John than Sherlock; after all, John was the more welcoming of the two and Sherlock had never had the sort of relationship with Lestrade that led to socialising outside of work. Things between all three of them had changed after that. John had quit the surgery, taking up a job in the ER of their local hospital, though he only worked part time. He'd also started attending the cells at the Yard as a police surgeon, on an emergency call out basis. He'd had drinks with Lestrade on a semi-regular basis. The thin consulting detective had gotten used to thinking of Lestrade as John's friend and no longer assumed that the DI was at Baker Street to see them in connection to a crime, depending on the schedules of both John and the DI.

Of course, things had changed between Sherlock and John as well. The pass that John had made at Sherlock in Angelo's restaurant that first night was finally reciprocated. Sherlock had confessed that John had caught his interest and that he'd been half hoping the doctor would make another attempt to approach him as their friendship progressed. John had insisted on them sitting down and 'working out' what it was that Sherlock wanted from the relationship, something that irked the thin man immensely. It had been more than worth it though, as not only had it cemented their professional partnership, the thin genius had discovered that in the purely physical domain, John was something of a minor god – in Sherlock's opinion.

John had taken their partnership by the scruff of the neck and shaped it into an intricate relationship that worked so smoothly Sherlock sometimes forgot that he had ever existed without John. They had become two halves of the same coin – to use yet another of John's ridiculous phrases – and even Mycroft couldn't beat them when it came to solving any problem in their path. Separately, they were good; together they were a force to be reckoned with. This spilled over into every aspect of their daily lives: Sherlock had even heard John mutter to Lestrade once that he almost had the ER running the way he wanted it, and Sherlock knew it was the absolute truth. The hospital was lucky to have John… luckier than they knew.

Because it seemed evident to him now that John Watson had been murdered before. Not in Afghanistan as Sherlock had assumed, not by Moriarty – though not for lack of trying, but before any of those things had ever happened.

What was it he'd said, back over a year ago when they were standing in the front room, John not even fully moved in yet and Lestrade in the middle of a fake drugs bust. Sherlock had asked him what he would do, what he would think if he was being murdered.

'_Please god let me live.'_

Sherlock had scoffed at him, calling him boring and pressing him for a true answer and John had told him that it was. Sherlock had assumed that his friend – and even then he'd known that John was his friend – had been talking about the events that led to his wounding in Afghanistan.

It wasn't until just now, looking at the woman and her surgically enhanced attributes that Sherlock had recalled the words John Watson had once spoken to him and the minor mystery before him had paled to insignificance. Sherlock had been presented with a key piece of information about John early in their friendship that he hadn't recognised as being crucial: even now, after all they had shared and all they knew about how the other half of their partnership worked, John was capable of being a complete mystery to Sherlock.

That was one of the reasons why Sherlock loved him as he did.

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

&%&%&


	2. Chapter 2

**A startling new method of brainwork**

Sherlock stared at Lestrade in shock. There was no possible way that John had been involved in that many cases with Scotland Yard in order to return a search result so high.

"That number cannot be right," he murmured, "What did you do, search the whole of England for the last thirty years?"

"Yes, actually," Lestrade replied sharply, "Because what you're forgetting, Sherlock, is that John didn't grow up in London – I don't know where he did and neither did you when I asked ten minutes ago – and that he's not the only person in the country to be called John Watson. Watson is a common enough name and so is John for that matter. Also, he's a consultant to the Yard and a Police Surgeon, so his name is linked to numerous case files as a witness or the attending physician."

"But… he's John," Sherlock didn't like feeling stupid, but that was how he felt now. To him, there could only ever be one John Watson; the man was as unique as a fingerprint. The very idea that there were others that shared his name had never occurred to him.

"Look – go get a tea or something – and bring one back for me – while I narrow this down," Lestrade waved him off, "And I suggest that you at least text John about this. He's off shift in an hour and he won't appreciate coming home to find you in a state – he'd probably like the warning. And for the record – I will be texting him if we find anything."

Sherlock's best glower didn't faze the DI at all – he blamed it on familiarity – and the consulting detective stomped off to get a tea. He toyed with the idea of refusing to bring one back for Lestrade, but couldn't shake the notion that the DI would simply refuse to share his findings with him. He did text John, knowing that the man would get the message once his shift ended, though he wasn't hopeful that he'd get the response he wanted.

'_Who murdered you? SH_.'

It was only after he'd sent the text that he realised that Lestrade was as familiar with John's shift schedule as Sherlock was. The implications were not something he appreciated – it seemed that Lestrade was… poaching for lack of a better word; it had to be nipped in the bud. Sherlock walked slowly back to the DI's office, knowing there was no point in antagonising the man he was relying on. He knew he'd only start a fight, which was counter productive at the moment or pace about the office, which wasn't that big to start with, waiting on the results. Over the last year, John had showed him that there were times when he got a better result from Lestrade if he gave the man a bit of space.

He breezed into the DI's office and deposited the tea on the desk with a faint air of accomplishment before Lestrade's facial expression sunk in.

"Sherlock, what was it about that crime scene that nudged your mind over to John?" the question was quite serious. Sherlock threw himself into the chair beside Lestrade's desk and frowned. He hadn't isolated that himself yet, being too distracted by the idea that he'd missed something important about John, even so early in their acquaintance.

Sitting back, Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face and ran his mind over the crime scene once more. What about it had made him think of John… pragmatic and steadfast John, who was so far removed from the cheap shrine to everything that was fleeting and artificial… the woman herself wasn't John's type, nor was her chosen style of décor… there were piles of the magazines that had been published solely for the entertainment of women – gossip and fashion and tips for attracting and keeping a mans interest. There had been several books of the sort that Sherlock had once heard characterised as 'bodice rippers' and the DVD's were all 'chick flicks'. The colours were garish and clashed and there was no art on the walls… but there were photos. Several family photos... that was it! John had been in one of those photos – the group of five children, all sitting on the stairs in a house. The stairs were carpeted and the wall behind them was papered with a pattern that indicated the paper had been hung in the seventies. John was young, only twelve years old and one of the older children was Harry. They had serious faces and John was pressed tightly against the railing, not touching any of the other children there, not even his sister who had her arm around the girl next to her. That girl was the murder victim…

"He was in a photo on the wall – the five children on the stairs," Sherlock said, focussing back on Lestrade, "He knew the victim… what have you found?"

"John Watson was twelve years old when his father's mistress broke into the family home and tried to strangle John to death. His mother discovered her in time to prevent her from actually succeeding. During the trial it came out that the woman had intended to kill his sister and mother as well. The woman – her name is Mary Morstan – was sectioned under the mental health act instead of being committed for attempted murder of a minor."

"And two weeks ago, she was released," John said from the doorway. Sherlock actually jumped, as did Lestrade. John offered them a sardonic look and waggled his phone at Sherlock, "I'm pretty lively for a murder victim, wouldn't you say? What's prompted this look into my past?"

"There was a murder victim today… she has a photo of you on her wall," Sherlock informed him, "I remembered that you told me you'd been murdered before, but I wasn't really paying attention then. I am now."

"Nothing to tell, really," John shrugged, which was so typical of the man. For someone who was so unique as to capture Sherlock's ongoing attention, John Watson was quite self-effacing. "You said someone had a picture of me on their wall?"

"Sharon Feldspar," Lestrade said it gently, speaking to John with the same voice he used on survivors at crime scenes. Sherlock didn't like hearing that tone directed at John, "Do you know her?"

"A little," John admitted, frowning, "She was in the foster home we went to for a little while after… she was nice…Do you… I mean, who killed her? Sherlock?"

"Her boyfriend," Sherlock muttered, then frowned, "Cut and dried. The Morstan woman got out two weeks ago? Are you sure?"

"I was informed as a matter of due course," John nodded, "You were out when I got the call."

Sherlock nodded, still frowning. When John had left the house this morning he'd been wearing a pair of jeans and the cream cable-knit jumper that Sherlock had given him for Christmas – or rather that Mrs Hudson had bought and Sherlock had signed his name to the card. John didn't have clothes at the hospital and wouldn't have had time to go home in change – in fact he still had twelve minutes of his shift left.

"You weren't at work when you got my text… what happened?" Sherlock leaned forward, and then stood up, wanting to be closer to John. He didn't like that his flatmate was standing in the doorway still – John's usual pattern of behaviour was to come into the room and join Sherlock if he was standing still. As he neared the man he took a closer look at him, realising that he was hurt, "Sit down. How deep is the cut?"

"Not at all," John sighed, "Guessing again?"

He allowed Sherlock to guide him to the visitors chair though, sitting when urged before smiling up at his friend. Sherlock chose to perch on the arm of the chair, sitting backwards so he could face John. Lestrade rolled his own chair so that he was able to see the faces of both men, but Sherlock dismissed him from his mind.

"I never guess," Sherlock replied firmly.

"Yes you do," John retorted, "I know you're guessing because you missed something. And I'm not an exercise in deducing Sherlock, so stop it."

John had started to insist that Sherlock stop deducing out loud about him – both men knew that it wasn't something Sherlock would ever be able to stop doing privately – telling his flatmate that he didn't like having his physical and mental status announced in public. Sherlock had agreed to do so after some thought and a brief debate.

"What. Happened?" Sherlock's voice was extremely cold and John sighed, dropping a hand onto the nearest arm. Sherlock immediately covered it with his own hand. He liked touching John and being touched by John, yet another thing that he'd begun to realise and act upon of late. John's touches evoked sensations and a sense of well being that Sherlock had never really experienced before.

"A patient was brought in, suffering from a high degree of agitation and what appeared to be a nasty case of _delirium tremens._ A colleague of mine was treating him when he got hold of a scalpel from a nearby tray of instruments and went after a nurse. I jumped him and he got in a few cuts before I disarmed him. And yes, Sherlock," John squeezed the arm that had tensed under his fingers, "He's been properly locked up. We're not sure what's causing his symptoms though."

Sherlock didn't reply, moving instead to gently examine John's arms. The cut to the side had been obvious in his friends posture, the cuts to his arms less so. Sure enough, there were several defensive wounds on both of John's arms, though none serious enough to require stitches.

"We're going home," Sherlock announced, "Lestrade, I want a copy of that file."

He plucked John neatly from the chair, keeping a steadying arm around his waist and leaving a spluttering DI in his wake.

&%&%

The moment Sherlock closed the front door behind them; Mrs Hudson was at their heels, worrying over John.

"… and I told him you wouldn't mind if he didn't come right down to the Yard after your text, but you know what he's like!" she fussed as Sherlock shepherded John up the stairs, one hand under an elbow, the other wrapped around his flatmates waist.

"You couldn't see your way clear to making him a cuppa, would you? I'm taking him to his room – he should be lying down," Sherlock said over his shoulder, knowing the quickest way to get rid of her was to give her a job to do. John made a faint noise of protest, but Sherlock's grip was comprehensive enough to stop him from wriggling away and imposing his own will on the situation. If the fool was going to wander around London after being stabbed multiple times, then clearly he wasn't in his right mind and needed taking care of. After the events with Moriarty last year, Sherlock was no longer quite so cavalier about his flatmate walking blithely into danger alongside him. John of course refused to allow Sherlock to face danger alone and had fought him every step of the way. It was only when John had actually moved out (he'd blagged Stamford's spare room for a week) that Sherlock had given in and agreed not to lie, deceive or otherwise exclude John from their work.

John's room was neat and tidy, though no longer quite so Spartan as it had been when he'd first moved in, due mainly to the bulging bookcase in the corner of the room and the ratty chair that he'd bought second hand. He plucked at John's clothes uncertainly, deciding that the jeans had to go, so did the shoes and that John would be cold due to blood loss so the doctor would be better off under the covers. John was oddly compliant with Sherlock's tugging and directing, which worried him. He sat on the bed when John was finally in it, propped up to sit against the headboard. Mrs Hudson entered with two cups of tea, one of which she put on the bedside table and the other that she handed to John with a roll of the eyes.

"Drink," John ordered and held the cup out to Sherlock. Sherlock frowned, but leaned forward obediently, raising one hand to the edge of the cup. John didn't let go, watching intently as Sherlock swallowed three or four mouthfuls, taking a sip from the cup himself before putting it on the bedside table.

"Come here, you," John's voice was gentle and Sherlock felt as if someone had wrapped him unexpectedly in a comforting blanket, leaning forward at John's irresistible direction. This was happening more and more often as their partnership progressed – John was able to disarm his defences with a tone of voice or look that led inevitably to Sherlock 'being taken care of', no matter that he'd always been self-sufficient in the past.

"oh," he murmured as he found his ear pressed to John's chest. Moving cautiously, aware of the wounds beneath John's clothes but needing more of the heartbeat that was cosseting him, Sherlock found himself stretching out. He curled on the edge of John's bed, one ear pressed to that grounding, steady sound, and a warm strong hand carding gently through his hair. Tension that he hadn't even known he was carrying melted from his frame as he experienced his flatmate in a way that he'd never considered before.

All thought fled from his mind. For what seemed like only a few moments his mind resonated with peace like the e-string of his Stradivarius hitting a perfect high note.

John smiled when his flatmate finally took a deep breath and stirred, sitting up five hours after John had pulled him into an impulsive hug. Sherlock had been reaching out to John more and more over the last few months – the hug had seemed like a logical progression for them. From Sherlock's reaction it was a good way to calm his flatmate down and John made mental note of that for the next time Sherlock was headed towards one of his 'twitches' – that state where he fretted about the flat, unable to settle to any one thing for any length of time. John had suspected that the mood was a leftover from Sherlock's days of drug use – that when he'd gotten into that state he'd turned to artificial stimulants to help him manage it. John had always done his best to nag or distract Sherlock out of that mood as best he could, though some of their more impressive fights had come from those attempts.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," Sherlock muttered as he lay against John, "I don't understand why this feels so very good."

"It's human nature to seek comfort with someone close to you," John murmured, "I didn't think you'd mind giving me a hug."

"I don't," Sherlock confessed, "But… the last time someone hugged me like this, Mycroft had him arrested."

John sensed there was more to the story than that, but even in this relaxed state Sherlock liked to be suitably dramatic about his past. John didn't push for the story, sensing that the details Sherlock was even now debating about telling him came with emotional disturbances that made his eccentric genius flatmate uncomfortable.

"I met Victor at University," Sherlock's voice was quiet and contemplative, "He was older than me – they all were."

"You'd have been twelve, right?" John had worked out that Sherlock had been privately schooled for most of his early years, and isolated from his peers because of this. This was the cause of some of his socially inadequacies.

"Fourteen," Sherlock corrected, "I'm not _that_ smart, John, thank you."

"Alright, so Victor was at least eighteen, then," John had a fair idea of where this was going, "He liked to cuddle with you?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, and then shifted until his head was back in place over John's heart, "And he promised he'd show me how to kiss for when I was old enough to get a girlfriend or boyfriend. Then one beastly hot spring afternoon, Mycroft turned up at the university unannounced. We were cuddling on Victor's bed and we'd taken most of our clothes off by that point because of the heat. Victor had been trying to make things more comfortable. Mycroft pitched a fit and the next thing I knew Victor was gone. I had to change Universities and everything. Your heart rate has sped up."

"Victor was a predator, Sherlock. He was probably trying to get you into a position to have sex with. He was taking terrible advantage of you," John explained in an even voice, though he wanted to call Mycroft and find this Victor person for himself, for reasons best left unexplored, "You know about perverts, right? I mean, you've had cases with them – we worked on one last year."

"oh…. I never realised…" Sherlock shivered against John, who tightened his hold around his friend automatically, "I guess I owe Mycroft a thank you then … how unpleasant."

John chuckled and rubbed Sherlock's back in a sympathetic kind of way, though he knew that Sherlock didn't hate his brother as much as he liked to pretend. Their relationship was much simpler than the one he had with Harry.

"John… tell me about Mary Morstan."

John had been expecting the order for the last five hours and so was well prepared to tell his consulting genius the story. Although living through it at the time had been terrifying and exhausting, the events he was about to explain to Sherlock had helped to form him into the man he was today. He didn't like to dwell on the past, but for Sherlock he would make the effort. There really wasn't much he would refuse to do for Sherlock – after all, he'd once volunteered to die for the man.

"My dad met Mary Morstan at work. They were both lawyers at the same firm. He was married when they met and I guess he didn't really start sleeping with her until after I was born. Mum did most of the work raising us, you see, and in the court case that came after all this he blamed her obsession with child raising and housework for his straying. Those are his words; I got them from the transcript of the court case. I looked it up after I joined the army."

"Curiosity," Sherlock approved from where he was slumped over John. The doctor smiled a little grimly and nodded.

"Mary Morstan was in love with my dad and wanted him to leave mum and us behind. She wanted to marry him and start a family with him and all of that," John sighed, "But dad wouldn't leave mum. Not because of some sort of out dated loyalty or because deep down he really loved us, but because he wanted to be made a partner in the firm he was working for and my mum was an extremely good hostess. You see if he'd left us to shack up with another woman – and a work colleague at that – then his chances of making partner was zero. It made better sense to stay with the little woman and son and daughter."

"I don't like your dad very much," Sherlock mused, bringing one hand up from its perch on the mattress to clutch John's arm where it braced across his chest, "In fact, I don't like him at all."

"No," John sighed, knowing that his flatmate was not being offensive or even ignorant – this was Sherlock's attempt at being supportive, "Me either. He's dead though, and I've always found hating a dead man to be a waste of energy."

"Mmm," Sherlock didn't sound convinced and John wondered for a moment if he still hated Moriarty for all the consulting criminal had put them through before John had killed him in that deserted cellar. He still bore the scars of that encounter, as did Sherlock. The man pressed against him poked him in the arm in a reminding sort of way and John blew out another breath, pushing the dark memories away for a time.

"Mary Morstan was after dad to leave us until I was eleven, and then she decided on another plan. She would get pregnant and force the issue that way. My mum didn't know anything about this, you see, or at least that was what she insisted until her death. I was eighteen when she died – Harry would say it was of a broken heart, but it was poor diet and alcohol abuse that did it. On my twelfth birthday, Mary Morstan informed my dad that she was pregnant and that if he didn't leave us to be with her then she would go public and ruin him. When he told her he'd pay to get rid of the baby she snapped. She climbed in through my bedroom window, which I'd opened to look at the stars to make a late night birthday wish… yes, yes, I was twelve, Sherlock, twelve year olds aren't usually logical about these things!"

"Sorry," Sherlock sniggered. John thought about contesting the truth of that statement, but decided the argument wasn't worth it. He waited until what could only be described as giggles trailed off, realising that Sherlock was more nervous about this portion of the tale than any other.

"She climbed into my bedroom and simply jumped onto the bed and put her hands around my throat. I suppose she thought that because I was twelve I wouldn't put up much of a fight," John grinned when Sherlock snorted, "Exactly. I put up a hell of a fight and the noise we made alerted mum and dad. They called the police and it all came out. Harry and I were sent to a foster home because Mum was in a bit of a state – she started drinking heavily for a while and then supposedly sobered up – and in the mean time Mary Morstan's trial went on, as well as the custody battle over her unborn child and mum and dads divorce. Eventually we were returned to mum, who was only sober thirty percent of the time. I grew up and became a doctor, then joined the army, got shot and met you. Since then, my life has made sense, most of the time."

"Thanks for that," the sarcasm was gentle and not at all meant. John ran a hand through his flatmates hand once more and then pushed at him gently.

"Up, you. I need the loo. Go make us tea – or call a take away."

"Indian ok?" Sherlock's tea making skills were iffy and if given a choice he would always take the second option. John was not above exploiting this quirk from time to time. Sherlock knew that and let him get away with it. It was part of the give and take that they had developed seemingly by osmosis.

To be continued

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

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	3. Chapter 3

**Memory Lane**

It was a testament to John's ability to distract him that Sherlock didn't remember to ask about the other children in the photo until Lestrade came up their stairs with a grim look on his face. John seemed to realise what was going on the moment the DI appeared, because he sat down heavily and frowned. Sherlock came to sit on the arm of his chair again, but John pushed him into his own armchair with a fond look and waved Lestrade to a seat on the couch.

"You're not a helicopter," the apparent non sequitor was enough to distract Sherlock long enough to allow Lestrade to ask if John remembered all the people in the photo. By the time he worked out how it applied to him, John was sitting with the photo in his hands, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"Well, there's me and Harry," John grimaced, "And Harry's arm is around Sharon. The boy behind them is Danny Choy – if I'm remembering rightly he was a bit of a klepto who liked taking things apart to see how they worked – and the boy on the stairs next to me was Jason Greengrass. He was really quiet – he used to follow people around spying on them and was always fighting with Harry. Harry and Sharon formed a girls club of sorts, because they were the only two girls in the home. It was an excuse to wind the rest of us up, really."

"I see," Lestrade sighed, "John, we found Jason Greengrass dead on the Embankment this morning. He'd been mugged and beaten pretty badly. CCTV in that area seems to be down, so we haven't got many leads. I'm worried that people from this photograph are turning up dead. I'd like your permission to conduct a background check, to see if there are any common acquaintances between the five of you – other than each other of course."

"Sure," John shrugged, "I've got nothing to hide any more."

This implied that he'd never intended to tell Sherlock he was living with a former murder victim. It certainly wasn't something that could be deduced about the man. Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt about John keeping secrets from him, even non important ones about the past.

"Is this one of those personal boundary things?" Sherlock asked, "It's not Yard procedure to ask someone involved in a homicide investigation permission to check their background."

"Yes, Sherlock, it's a personal boundary thing," Lestrade shook his head, "We're going to be looking for Danny Choy as well, John, unless you know where he is?"

"Actually, I do," John grinned, "Danny the klepto dismantler now runs a very successful engineering firm – they build prototypes for other companies. I read about him the other day in the paper."

As John supplied the details of the article to Lestrade, Sherlock got up and reached for the nearest laptop – his own for a change – and started searching. There had to be _something_ that tied these people together, other than the home that they had once stayed in all those years ago. If there was a threat to John he wanted it found and neutralised immediately, if not sooner. With that in mind he fired a quick text off to his brother, leaving the phone beside the keyboard as he worked.

Three minutes later he got a reply:

_Coming to Baker Street. M_

"Well, at least he's taking this seriously for once," Sherlock muttered and glanced over at John, who was reading this mornings paper, the story of Jason Greengrass on the front page, "Mycroft is coming."

"You know, I imagine the Romans felt the same way about the Barbarians," was the pleasant reply and Sherlock smirked, pleased that John was in fine form. He'd need to be to deal with Mycroft Holmes.

To be continued

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

&%&%&


	4. Chapter 4

**Familie****s are a pain…**

Mycroft arrived with his assistant, a briefcase and a slight frown to his face. It was the frown that worried Sherlock: Mycroft only looked like that when he was contemplating doing something for _Sherlock's own good_, a situation that never ended well between the brothers. John made tea, which Sherlock accepted, Mycroft declined and the assistant ignored. Sherlock wondered if she ever did anything other than text, but didn't want to know enough to actually enquire.

"I assume this is about the Morstan situation?" Mycroft asked: his voice cool and collected. Sherlock lured John to sit beside him on the couch, well within arms reach, just in case Mycroft had ideas about separating them. After the cuddle he'd shared with John only last night, he was worried that his brother would try to separate him from his friend again, even though the situation was hardly comparable.

"Yes," John said quietly, "We think that someone is targeting and killing the former children of the foster home that Harry and I went to after Miss Morstan attacked the family."

Sherlock shot John a quick look – that was a telling verbal tick right there. Technically the only person that had been _attacked_ was John. The damage done to the rest of the family was mere collateral. John shot him a look in response – the visual equivalent of '_Yes? Problem?'_ that he used on Sherlock whenever they were in the middle of a crime scene or interview or just watching rubbish telly at home.

Mycroft was watching this by-play with narrowed eyes, which made Sherlock nervous. He wouldn't stand by and watch Mycroft send John away this time, which meant that he'd have to oppose his brother, or prove that…

"I won't be sending John away, Sherlock," Mycroft's tone had taken on a condescending tone that the younger brother hated; "I think you know why. As to the Morstan situation, the surveillance I keep on you both has shown no unusual scrutiny from outside forces."

"Do you know where Miss Morstan is?" John asked quietly and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I do," he confirmed, "And she is in no condition to be running around killing young men and women. She was released from prison straight into a nursing home that cares for people with dementia. In addition to which, she was involved in a rather nasty confrontation during her prison term which left her with enough physical and nerve damage to make walking any distance or actually holding anything in her dominant hand almost impossible."

Sherlock felt a primitive flush of satisfaction at that announcement, which immediately confused him. Why he should be pleased to know that someone who had tried to hurt John when he was a child had been hurt by someone else was beyond him – it was not logical. John frowned beside him and for a moment Sherlock wondered if his flatmate had discerned his thoughts as the Holmes brothers were wont to do.

"I'd say I was sorry to hear that," John sighed, "But I don't think I am. Does that make me a bad person?"

"Merely human," Mycroft replied with a sniff and Sherlock shot his brother an impatient look. There was nothing _mere_ about John, "However I believe there is someone in this little domestic drama that you have overlooked."

Sherlock's frown turned to one of concentration and then cleared mere seconds later.

"Her child," Sherlock felt like the thickest man on the planet, "Mary Morstan was pregnant when she went to prison. What happened to that child?"

"_Children_, Sherlock. Mary Morstan bore Hamish Watson a set of fraternal twins, a daughter named for her mother and a son named for his father. They were taken from her and placed in the charge of their father, Hamish Watson. I take it that you were unaware of your half brother and sister, Dr Watson?" Mycroft looked at John with some interest and Sherlock shot him a look; then moved to wrap his arms around John in an awkward hug, which his roommate leaned into indulgently then sat up once more. Sherlock had read somewhere on the internet that significant others liked to hold hands in shows of support so he captured one of John's hands in his. Mycroft smirked.

"I was unaware of them, yes," John muttered: his tone sharp. Sherlock watched his friend take a deep breath and then continue to speak in a normal tone. It was a masterpiece of emotional detachment, "Dad was ordered to have nothing to do with us once the divorce and the court cases were done with – he sent mum child support payments, but I never saw him again. He died while I was over in Afghanistan. I didn't even apply for leave to attend the funeral. He financed my studies after mum died, but he never came to my graduation or my passing out parade in the army – I told him about them but he didn't appear. I suppose he was too busy with little Mary and Hamish."

"They are twenty four years old now. Mary Watson is a veterinarian, her brother Hamish is in graphic design. Both live and work here in the city: in fact Hamish Watson lives just around the corner in Kensington," Mycroft informed them.

"I don't want to meet them," John informed the room at large, "They have their own lives. I don't need to be a part of them."

He pulled his hand free from Sherlock's and left the room, going upstairs to his bedroom and closing the door behind him. Sherlock waited a moment, but when there were no further sounds he turned to glare at his brother.

"And I suppose you think that was amusing," he snapped quietly, "John takes family seriously, god knows why, considering the family he ended up with. I assume you mentioned them because they were relevant to the killings?"

"Hamish Watson is," Mycroft nodded, "He seems to have inherited his mother's instability. Mary Watson is a very level headed young lady, dedicated to her work with animals and never once involved with trouble. I doubt the woman has ever had a parking ticket, let alone committed a felony."

"You'll leave the details here for me," Sherlock ordered, "I'll look into them myself."

"I have also sent this information to Scotland Yard," Mycroft tossed a folder onto the coffee table and stood: his texting assistant moving to his side as if attached by a string, "They can at least do some of the… leg work for you."

Sherlock shot him a seething glance and nodded, not willing to prolong this discussion any further. Mycroft gave him a final, knowing smirk and nodded, collecting his assistant with a glance as he left.

"Have _fun_ Sherlock," Mycroft's voice floated back up the stairs to him, "I'm sure you'll manage…"

Sherlock blushed beet red, glared hatefully down the stairs and returned to the front room to go through the file. It wouldn't do to appear in John's room while his face was still red. John was no Holmes, but he was good at understanding emotions when he saw them.

To be continued

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Tea and sympathy**

AN – some mushy (non slash) stuff

John came downstairs for dinner as Sherlock had gotten immersed in his research.

"Lestrade confirmed that Hamish Watson was Sharon Feldspar's boyfriend," Sherlock announced as John moved to look in the fridge. There were no body parts present for a change, as Sherlock was between experiments. Sherlock's flatmate began pulling ingredients out of the fridge, preparatory to starting dinner.

"Case solved, then. Boring," John muttered, clearing a space on the counter tops and fishing out various bowls and baking dishes. Sherlock frowned. He didn't like it when John spoke like that – quiet and disengaged. John was the most involved person that Sherlock knew – he seemed to be connected to everyone and everything. Sherlock may have professed not to care – and on the whole he didn't – but to hear John of all people decide that he didn't care either was downright frightening.

Especially when he was not caring about a member of his family.

Sherlock knew enough about John to know that confronting him about this would lead to a row and possibly John walking out. He'd had a day off today to get over his stabbing at the hospital, but he'd be back to work tomorrow, which meant Sherlock could spend the day with Lestrade, wrapping things up. The quicker Hamish Watson was behind bars the quicker John would return to his normal self.

Sherlock also knew enough about John to know that he would be appalled at his lack of compassion for the half brother he'd only discovered hours ago once he returned to his normal self. Therefore it was up to Sherlock to see to it that the half brother was stopped quickly and cleanly before he got around to someone that John _did_ care about. He'd already arranged with Lestrade that Danny Choy and Harry Watson would be watched closely. Lestrade had warned them both that they were possible targets and Danny had agreed to stay at home that evening, so the police could watch him. Harry hadn't been given a choice about her protection – Mycroft's people had already picked her up and checked her into the same clinic that Sherlock had once used – the advantage of that being that it was quite secure and therefore she was quite safe.

Sherlock knew not to tell John about that unless he asked. He certainly wasn't planning to go into any details. Harry Watson could complain to her younger brother when she got out – though the chances that he would listen were not great. The chances that he'd give Sherlock one of those _looks_ – the one that meant that Sherlock was close to crossing a line – were quite high and Sherlock mentally braced himself for it in advance. He didn't like to disappoint John – a fact that kept him clean of drugs. This was what Mycroft had meant when he said Sherlock knew why his older brother wouldn't try to send John away. Mycroft knew that Sherlock did better with everyday things when John was at his side.

"What are you making?" Sherlock asked, getting up and going into the kitchen. He looked at the ingredients on the table and beamed. John was making a low carb meal that Sherlock particularly liked. Where the recipe had come from, Sherlock didn't know. He did know that the meal tasted good piping hot or stone cold, which meant that the left overs were easy to retrieve when he was feeling peckish.

"I felt like something simple, so baseless quiche it is," John shrugged, "I didn't think you'd mind."

"No," Sherlock agreed and set about clearing off the remnants of his last experiment from the kitchen table. John didn't mind eating off trays, but Sherlock was feeling that his flatmate needed some supportive gesture, so clearing the kitchen table would have to do. John was very discerning when it came to understanding Sherlock's gestures. He was also very generous in attributing positive motives and aspects to Sherlock's actions in this context. He was not so forgiving when they were on a case and Sherlock was feigning emotion for a victim or suspect, or manipulating someone to get information from them.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John sighed after a moment, "I'm not going to be very good company while all this is sorting itself out."

"I'll consider myself warned," Sherlock smirked and John huffed a laugh at him, chopping mushrooms with quick, efficient movements. John was very skilled with a knife, a leftover from his surgery days.

"You do that," John nodded and bent to the task of making dinner.

Mrs Hudson arrived as dinner was being served, which meant that she was included in the plating up. John had started insisting that their landlady be included in their more domestic routines, as she was alone. Sherlock didn't mind – Mrs Hudson had quite a good store of popular gossip to draw on, for when his cases intersected with the world of 'entertainment'. He used the dinner conversation to pick her brains about the latest events, which meant he stayed relatively up to date with things for minimal effort.

Once their landlady was gone and the kitchen clean to John's standards – which were higher than Sherlock's – they wandered out into the front room. John stared at his armchair for a moment and then shook his head.

"I'm for bed," he announced, "Goodnight."

"May I… join you?" Sherlock put the request in a diffident tone, genuinely curious if John would allow this imposition. He wanted to be held again, and knew that John would relax if he was being affectionate to another person. If he could get John to sleep, then his flatmate would be in better condition for his shift at the ER tomorrow, which meant he'd be on guard in case his half brother attempted to murder him.

"Sherlock… sure. Why the hell not…" John shrugged, "Come up when you're ready."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but John had warned him that he was not likely to be in a good mood, so Sherlock brushed it off. He waited ten minutes, then changed into more comfortable clothing and went upstairs. John was lying in the bed on his side, covers about his waist. Sherlock walked around to the other side and slid in, moving to spoon up behind John at once, wrapping a long arm around him – being careful of the hidden scalpel wounds – and burying his nose in the back of John's neck. He waited patiently for forty three seconds and then John's hands moved to grasp his arm and the man in front of him relaxed. Sherlock kept the smirk off his face and merely settled closer, waiting for John to fall asleep.

That took all of five minutes.

Once John was asleep, Sherlock located the other mans heartbeat and pressed his forehead to it, absently ticking off the beats while his mind reviewed the facts so far. The case had been a promising one at the beginning, but now that he had confirmed his suspect was in fact guilty all that remained was to catch the man, preferably before he could do something else that would upset John. Tomorrow he would see Lestrade and get the man to arrest Hamish Watson, which wouldn't be hard once Sherlock had reviewed the files once more and narrowed down his likely location.

For a while he lay there and let John's sleeping body soothe him. There was something so pleasant about lying with John, something that had been missing when he'd cuddled with Victor all those years ago. He couldn't believe he'd missed the other man's nature – though he had been quite young then and not as observant as he was now.

Sherlock gave up on trying to analyse it for once in his life and settled his limbs into a position that would prevent them from cramping up or disturbing John, letting his mind slip into that stream of consciousness that allowed him to do his most creative thinking.

To be continued

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Armchair work**

John had trundled off to the ER that morning in grim silence. Despite the fact that he'd apparently slept quite well last night – or at least his heart rate had never risen significantly enough to rouse Sherlock from his almost meditative state – he looked tired and worn. Sherlock was hoping that someone at the ER would notice it and try to steer John to the quieter patients. John was always more cantankerous when he was tired or under fed, something that Sherlock liked to avoid. He got better results when his partner was in top fitness and therefore took the time to do what he could to contribute to that fitness.

Lestrade did not look pleased to see him. Sally Donovan made as if to step in his way, but his very best 'psycho stare' – her words, not his – soon saw her off. From the pile on Lestrade's desk several of his more banal cases were taking his attention away from what – in Sherlock's opinion – should have been his priority.

"We haven't had any luck finding Hamish Watson," Lestrade began in a weary tone and Sherlock snorted.

"Luck! No wonder you never get anything solved if you're relying on luck! Why not an ouija board while you're at it?" he interrupted sarcastically, "Honestly, Lestrade, it's a wonder you get anything solved without my help at all."

"I'll let that pass, as John is my friend too and we're both worried for him," Lestrade fixed Sherlock with the sort of look that his father had once given him and Sherlock threw himself sulkily into the visitors chair. "How was he this morning?"

"Not good," Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face to hide his unease, "So I've come to review the files and help you catch Hamish Watson. I want this over with by tonight."

Lestrade looked as if he was swallowing a lecture, but Sherlock simply held his hand out for the documents he wanted, knowing full well that he'd get them. They both wanted this case over for personal as well as professional reasons, therefore Lestrade would cooperate. Sherlock smirked when he got the file without the lecture and began to pore through it.

The DI didn't sit there waiting for him, returning to his own stack of files and making a few calls on unrelated cases. He left at one point to see another officer about missing reports and through it all Sherlock sat completely still, the only thing moving being his eyes as he scanned the file from top to bottom and back again. Hamish Watson had a patchy work history, had been checked voluntarily into a clinic twice in the twenty four years he'd been on this earth and apparently had difficulties establishing personal relationships. His sister would probably shelter him, but he was as likely to seek her out as John was to seek Harry. He had some savings put by, which he'd withdrawn shortly before the murder of Sharon Feldspar. It was likely he'd chosen her by accident, but had then recognised John and Harry in the photo on her wall: this would have proven to be a tipping point…

Sherlock shook his head impatiently and called back to mind the steadying beat of John's heart. Once his thoughts were clear he started again, looking for patterns in Hamish Watson's movements that would allow him to track the man down. Hamish had moved several times over the last three years, though always within the same geographic locale. Something was keeping him in the area, then, something that would show in his purchase patterns or travel patterns…

Lestrade was outside, berating someone now, so Sherlock helped himself to the man's computer. It was a moment's work to call up the relevant bank records online, using Lestrade's authorisation code when the system queried him. Five minutes of reading showed him the pattern, and three more minutes confirmed it beyond a doubt.

"Too easy," Sherlock smirked as the DI came back in, looking annoyed that Sherlock had appropriated his work space, "He's addicted to coffee; and like all coffee addicts he has a favourite barista. The Costa on Lower Regent Street. It's the closest to Devonshire Place, where he currently lives. He's been moving around the area the last few years, but he's always within easy reach of Lower Regent."

"And you think we'll find him there, having his morning cup of coffee," Lestrade asked, sarcasm thick in his voice.

"No, his afternoon cup of coffee – we've missed the morning one. Come on, Lestrade, do you have a better lead?" Sherlock snapped impatiently, "This is tearing John apart; I want it over and done with."

Lestrade looked startled, but nodded after a moment and gestured for Sherlock to lead the way. Sherlock filed that look away for later analysis – if he worked out what he'd said to get such quick cooperation, he'd be able to use it to greater affect the next time.

To be finished…

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

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	7. Chapter 7

**Anti-climax**

The arrest had been anticlimactic to say the least, Sherlock mused as he waited for John to come home. He and Lestrade had taken a seat in the back of the restaurant and simply waited for Hamish Watson to come in. Hamish looked quite like John, less grey and less worn, but still carrying a strong family resemblance. From this Sherlock inferred that both men strongly resembled their father.

He wouldn't mention that to John, nor would he mention the torrent of incoherent abuse that poured from Hamish's mouth when Lestrade arrested him. The man clearly wasn't in his right mind, if he ever had been. Preliminary forensics work looked promising to tie him to the deaths of Sharon Feldspar and Jason Greengrass. The threat to John was removed and with luck, Sherlock would have his partner back in fighting trim as soon as the last of the scalpel wounds from the ER patient had healed.

"Did you ever find out why that patient attacked the ER staff?" Sherlock asked as John came in, weary and rumpled. John gave him a startled look but was well used to his abrupt questions that were seemingly related to nothing.

"Yes, he was being poisoned. A rather rare and unusual compound," John replied, "DI Dimmock is in charge of the case."

"We'll probably hear from him at some point then, he's too green to have the contacts and scope to deal with it alone. I can turn him down if you like, poisoned or not, he did attack you," Sherlock raised an eyebrow, confident he knew the answer to that offer. Sure enough, John didn't let him down.

"No, if Dimmock comes to you, you should take the case," John smiled, "Thanks any way, Sherlock."

"Very well," he made an effort to seem unconcerned, knowing that John would attribute higher motives to his offer than had really been there, "Hamish Watson was arrested today. He'll probably be sectioned, though I hope he's fit to stand trial for what he did. Either way, the case is over with now."

"Oh," John came and sat on the coffee table opposite the couch where Sherlock was currently lying, "That's… good."

"Yes," Sherlock said simply, "It is."

He reached out and caught hold of his flatmate, dragging him over onto the couch and arranging them both in a comfortable position. John protested wordlessly but didn't struggle; probably afraid he'd knock them both off the narrow couch if he did. Once Sherlock had John settled to his satisfaction he planted one hand flat over John's back, seeking his heartbeat again.

"You don't mind, do you? I find this… conducive to brainwork," Sherlock asked belatedly, looking down at the top of John's head. His flatmate was a welcome weight against him, warm and alive. John sighed, the breath briefly heating the front of Sherlock's shirt.

"It's not that I mind so much, Sherlock… it's just that normal flatmates don't cuddle on the couch," John explained patiently.

"Normal's boring," Sherlock snorted, "You can turn the telly on if you like. I've ordered takeaway for seven thirty."

"Ok," John sighed and reached for the remote control.

END

**Disclaimer – characters and settings and dialogue as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine**

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AN – Lame huh? That's why its called anticlimax


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